Every Saturday Night
by cactusnell
Summary: Evidently, Saturday nights are habit forming. Sherlolly


It was Saturday night, and Molly Hooper was spending it with one of her most favorite people in the world. Someone who looked at her with unbridled affection. Someone who laughed at all her jokes. Someone who loved to snuggle, and didn't mind at all when Molly showered them with kisses. In fact, they would return the kisses on command. It was just unfortunate that this person was her godchild, the year old daughter of Molly's friends John and Mary Watson. Claire was just slightly over one year old, actually, as her birthday had been the previous Saturday. The necessary party had been thrown, with the attendees including all of the parents' family and friends. This Saturday was meant to be date night for the exhausted couple, a chance to catch up with each other. Molly was babysitting because she, of course, had nothing better to do on a Saturday night.

She shouldn't have been surprised when her favorite person in the world showed up halfway through her evening. Sherlock Holmes opened the door to the flat without knocking, and without preamble, sat himself down on the floor and snatched the infant from her arms. Molly wondered if he would have made so bold an entrance had Mary been home. She thought not.

"I've come to assist. I don't know why John and Mary didn't ask me in the first place."

"Perhaps they object to your experimenting on the only child."

"I was merely testing the efficacy of dairy products in reducing gastric inflammation brought on by the ingestion of capsaicin in small quantities."

"You fed her ice cream and hot peppers, Sherlock!"

"She liked it! Besides, my experiment came to an ill-timed conclusion…"

"When she threw up all over you!"

"Here," he said, handing the child back to Molly after disentangling her small hands from his dark curls. As he rose, he pulled a small jar from the pocket of his Belstaff. "Do you suppose there's any ice cream in the freezer?"

It took some time to dissuade Sherlock, but when the Watson's finally got home, they found their baby sleeping peacefully, the pathologist dozing on the couch, and Sherlock examining John's laptop.

"John, I see you haven't given up perusing those rather interesting sites!"

Mary craned her neck to see what he was talking about, but John beat her to it, slamming the computer shut. The noise woke Molly, who looked around apologetically. "Sorry, I seem to have dozed off." She then gave Sherlock a questioning glare.

"Relax, Molly. I couldn't find any ice cream."

Everyone soon said their goodbyes, with Sherlock and Molly sharing a cab. While it was not what Molly would have wanted from sharing a Saturday night with the the unrequited love of her life, it was better than nothing. Come to think of it, this made two Saturdays in a row, if you counted last week's birthday party. She was on a roll! It was with this thought in mind that she heard Sherlock say, as she exited the cab at her flat, "We must do this again sometime." She had no time to come up with a smart ass reply as the door closed and the cab pulled away.

The following Saturday Molly was curled up in pajamas and ratty robe, eating ice cream on her couch, and watching crap telly, trying to convince herself that ice cream, being a dairy product, was a perfectly acceptable evening meal. Her mobile signalled an incoming text message.

ARE YOU AT HOME? - SH

Why should she admit to the detective that she had nothing better to do on a Saturday night.

NO - MH

YES YOU ARE. I CAN HEAR YOUR TELLY - SH

WHERE ARE YOU? - MH

ON THE LANDING IN FRONT OF YOUR FLAT - SH

I'M SURPRISED YOU HAVEN'T PICKED MY LOCK YET - MH

CAN"T. MY ARMS ARE FULL OF CHINESE TAKEOUT. MARGINALLY BETTER THAN CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM - SH

IT'S CHERRY VANILLA, YOU GIT - MH

AT LEAST YOU'RE ADDING FRUIT TO YOUR DIET! ARE YOU GOING TO LET ME IN OR NOT - SH

Molly, of course, let him in.

They spent the evening flipping from channel to channel, eating Chinese food, and drinking the last of Molly's cheap red wine, which Sherlock complained about incessantly.

"Where did you get this stuff, Molly? You could use it for paint thinner!"

"I do."

Sherlock scowled at her, but continued to sip the supposedly vile stuff. "Next time, I'll bring some wine, and you can cook. You can cook, can't you?"

"You should try not be so insulting when you're inviting yourself to a meal, Sherlock."

"I'm just trying to ascertain whether I should bring some antacid in addition to the wine!"

Molly was considering a suitable comeback, when Sherlock rose from the couch, leaned over to unexpectedly brush her cheek with his lips, and took his leave. "What the bloody hell was that?" Three Saturdays in a row, Molly decided not to overthink the situation. After all, one should never look a gift horse in the mouth!

The work week passed uneventfully. Sherlock had been in occasionally to perform an experiment or two, and to consult on an autopsy report for DI Lestrade. He had mentioned nothing all week about Molly cooking dinner until just before he left on Friday afternoon.

"So what's for dinner?"

Molly was slightly surprised that he remembered. "What would you like?"

"Preferably something edible."

"Spaghetti? I can make spaghetti."

"Anybody can make spaghetti, Molly. Bloody hell, even I can make spaghetti! Challenge yourself!"

"Cornish hens with truffle dressing? Chocolate cake for dessert!" Molly answered confidently. She was, in fact, an excellent cook, despite Sherlock's chiding. She had so far failed to dazzle him with her looks, her intellect, or her personality. Cooking may be her last shot!

"Excellent! I'll bring the appropriate wine." Sherlock said, but added under his breath, "As well as the appropriate medication."

"I heard that!" Molly shouted at his retreating figure.

"You were meant to!"

Saturday evening at Molly's flat passed pleasantly, liberally lubricated by Sherlock's excellent choice of white wine. Molly usually preferred red, but his was delicious. And expensive, she suspected. Not something he picked up at the corner quickie market. The had watched a movie on the telly, but given up halfway through to discuss the latest breakthroughs in forensic science. This had, as wine consumption progressed, degenerated into a discussion of Batman versus Superman, who Sherlock could easily identify. When the discussion turned to Ben Affleck versus Henry Cavill, however, he lost focus. Sherlock then decided that it was time to take his departure, as he was beginning to lose focus on a lot of things, including the room around him. Once again, he leaned over, brushed her cheek with his lips, and took his leave. Molly sighed, sat back, and took a very large gulp of the very excellent wine. Such is life!

The following Saturday Molly was called into the lab. There had been a horrific accident involving a van full of children, three of whom had not survived. This was the kind of day Molly dreaded. She had long ago reconciled herself to untimely death. If she hadn't her job would have driven her mad by this time. But children always affected her spirit. She barely contained her tears as she finished the autopsies. She pulled the latex gloves from her hands, and wiped her eyes. All she wanted to do was get out of the place.

Sherlock was waiting at her flat with a pizza and a bottle of Scotch. Molly had always tried to give him what he needed, whatever he asked of her, but she was deeply touched that he seemed to know instinctively what she needed. They sat at her kitchen table, sharing the pizza and the Scotch. It was definitely a night for liquor, not wine. When they finished the pizza, Sherlock led her into the sitting room, sat down on the couch next to her, and listened as she rambled on about the unfairness of life.

"Life's often not fair, Molly. It's often not easy. But, considering the alternative, it's the best we have. Just cry, if you want to. I'm here." And then he moved closer, put an arm around her shoulder, and listened to her sob.

The whiskey was having an effect. Soon the quiet sobs slowed, then died completely, Sherlock lifted her gently and carried her to her room, placing the duvet over her sleeping body. He then leaned over, kissed her forehead, and took his leave.

It was on Wednesday of the following week that Molly discovered that she apparently had plans for the weekend. She had been lunching with Sherlock and John in the hospital cafeteria, John being between rounds at the moment. An acquaintance of John's, another consulting physician at St. Bart's, approached the table and asked if he could join them. Sherlock gave him a glaringly unfriendly look as he took a seat next to "his" pathologist. John introduced him to Molly, and he, then, was the recipient of a glaringly unfriendly look.

"Dr. Hooper, of course. John talks about you all the time. He never mentioned how attractive you are, though." Molly blushed at the compliment.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and said, "Why state the obvious?"

Both Molly and John turned to look at him. But the new addition to their table continued, "I guess he's not allowed to notice, being married and all! How is Mary, by the way? I haven't seen her in ages."

"She's great", John replied. "Just a little sick of only the kid for company. Why don't you come over on Saturday. I know she love to get reacquainted. Molly, how about joining us? Sherlock never seems to need an invitation!"

"Molly has plans, John," Sherlock said brusquely, then pointed out that they had finished their meals, and should probably be about their business. He rose and took hold of the back of Molly's chair, sliding it slightly backward as she rose, making it easier for her to extricate herself from the table.

"Perhaps I'll see more of you around the hospital?" John's friend inquired hopefully.

Molly was about to respond, although she wasn't quite sure what she had to say, when Sherlock put in, "Dr. Hooper spends most of her time in the morgue. Not a place I would expect a plastic surgeon who specializes in nose jobs for wealthy patients to frequent. Good day!" And with that he hurried Molly out of the cafeteria. The newcomer looked over at John, saying "How did he know…?"

"He's Sherlock the git Holmes! I should have warned you. Sorry! He doesn't like to share 'his' pathologist."

"Oh, so they're… involved?"

"No. Maybe.. Who knows? Sherlock may, but I doubt if Molly has a clue. Maybe Sherlock doesn't have a clue! It's...complicated!" John huffed and left his confused colleague at the table.

The following Saturday found Molly sitting on her couch, as usual, waiting for Sherlock Holmes, as was also usual. She had been waiting for him for almost seven years, give or take, in one way or another. Waiting for him to notice her, waiting for him to say a kind word, waiting for him to return from two years of dismantling Moriarty's network. That last was the worst, as she never knew if he was dead or alive. But he had returned, only a little the worse for wear. Now he did, indeed, notice her. He was kind to her. She knew he considered her a friend, but certainly nothing more. And yet, despite all this, she was now waiting for Sherlock Holmes on a bloody Saturday night, with absolutely no expectation that he would actually show up.

Seven o'clock came and went. No Sherlock.

Seven-thirty, still no Sherlock.

Eight o'clock, and guess what? Still no consulting detective.

Molly slowly moved from her couch to her freezer, in search of ice cream. At this point she would have preferred more of Sherlock's excellent Scotch, but it seems that they had finished it off. She was barely three spoonfuls into her butter brickle when a text message arrived.

ON A CASE. ALMOST FINISHED. MEET ME AT ANGELO'S ASAP - SH

Angelo's? A real restaurant? On a Saturday night? In public? With Sherlock Holmes! Molly tried to analyse the situation. Maybe Angelo's was the crime scene. Had someone been drowned in the spaghetti sauce? Or poisoned with the parmigiana? Molly grabbed a jacket and left her flat immediately.

She arrived at Angelo's to discover that no crime had been committed on the premises, except perhaps some overcooked veal, and that Sherlock had not yet arrived. As she scanned the room, the proprietor approached her.

"Miss Hooper?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock sends his apologies. He'll be here a just a few minutes. He said I should seat you at his regular table."

"I'm surprised you recognized me!"

"Oh, Sherlock described you perfectly. Lovely hair, beautiful smile…"

""That's quite enough Angelo. I don't want you giving my pathologist a swelled head." Sherlock interrupted the older man, as he joined them on the walk to a small table in the back. Molly, walking in front of him, did not see the slight pinkish tinge of embarrassment creeping up his neck.

As soon as they ordered their meal, Molly couldn't help but ask, "Sherlock, what are we doing here?"

"I was busy today. Case was barely a five, but it did have some interesting aspects. I finished up later than I thought, and realized that I had not called you. Too late for you to cook, and I'm rather sick of takeaway. I was nearby, you were nearby. So, here we are. Problem? We can leave if you're not in the mood for Italian." Sherlock almost looked concerned.

"You know I love Italian food. Besides, we've already ordered! I mean, we didn't have any definite plans, you really don't owe me a dinner at a nice restaurant…"

"Angelo's isn't that nice. You've never seen the kitchen!"

"Sherlock, that isn't what I mean…"

"Molly, you should know that I am a creature of habit. For the past few weeks we have spent every Saturday night together. I see no reason to change that. Unless you object?"

"No…" So that's it! I've become a habit! Well, he is an addict, so maybe that was to be expected. Molly was lost in thought, seeing herself travelling down a long dark road to spinsterhood, populated by replaceable cats and Sherlock Holmes on Saturday nights. At least if this continued she could count on him to provide excellent alcoholic beverages to lubricate her slide into lonely oblivion! She reached for the chianti, and gulped it down.

"Molly?"

"I'm fine!" Molly said, and tucked into her meal with gusto. _ If I'm going to wind up a lonely old alcoholic with cats (now it was plural cats, in her mind!), there was certainly no use watching her figure. Evidently nobody else would be. _ She took another gulp of chianti, while Sherlock Holmes, the man who knew everything, looked at her quizzically.

As it was a very pleasant evening, Sherlock suggested they walk to Molly's flat. The conversation was congenial enough until Sherlock brought up the subject of John's friend the plastic surgeon, or "That prime example of the festering underbelly of the medical profession!"

"If anyone should know about festering underbellies, it's a pathologist, Sherlock, and I can't see why you seem to dislike him so much."

"I neither like nor dislike him, Molly. I was merely making an unbiased assessment." He glanced over and noticed Molly's sceptical face. He continued, "He probably seduces woman by offering them facelifts, or chin implants, or," and here he made a crazy gesture, cupping his hands in front of his chest, "or breasts the size of watermelons!"

By this time Molly was laughing out loud. "Maybe I should chat him up! You've always told me my breasts were too small!"

"I was mistaken."

Molly was now wishing that she hadn't drunk so much chianti, as she was obviously hallucinating.

They slowly climbed the stairs to her flat, Sherlock insisting on seeing her safely to her door.

"Want some coffee?" Molly turned to ask as she fumbled with her keys. For some reason, she always seemed to fumble about when Sherlock was near. And he always seemed to notice, but lately had been kind enough not to call attention to it. He followed her into the sitting room, dropped his coat on a chair, and still on her heels, went into the kitchen with her. He seemed to hover more closely than usual, studying her. She was becoming more and more uneasy as she puttered about, trying to concentrate on the task before her.

"Molly, I'm not very good about these things. And John is not around so much lately to offer advice. Not that his advice was ever very good!"

"What are you talking about, Sherlock? Did you need some advice?"

"Maybe." He moved closer, and Molly froze like a deer in headlights. He put his arms around her waist, and said, "We've spent the last, what, six Saturday nights together. We have shared meals. We have socialized outside of your home. When do you think it would be appropriate for me to kiss you?"

"About six and a half years ago, Sherlock!"

"Ah, sorry about that. You know sometimes I lose track of time!" And he pulled her closer still, and moved his mouth to cover hers. And it felt wonderful. Molly felt wonderful. Evidently her mouth was not too small, and her breasts were not to tiny (perhaps he would express his feelings concerning her breasts later!), and her hair must be just right, too, judging by the way he was running his hand through it!

"Molly, another question", Sherlock spoke softly as he nuzzled her neck from her clavicle to the base of her ear, "What is your position on sex?"

She couldn't help answering saucily, "Any position you'd like, Sherlock!"

As they made their way into the bedroom, Molly knew that Sunday mornings were about to become a habit, too, to be followed closely by every other day of the week.


End file.
